Turn, Turn, Turn
by oconnellaboo
Summary: Submitted (a bit early?) as part of, "The Little Show That Could," celebration - Check it out on Tumblr! I don't own Fringe, but don't we wish we did. Thanks and hugs to the best Beta ever (and waaaay up there on the friend scale, too), Dixiegirl256!


**Turn, Turn, Turn**

"Three hundred and sixty-five."

Peter Bishop looked up from the swing set instructions he'd been poring over for the last ten minutes, delighted with the distraction. One day ago, he had sweated through his doctoral dissertation at MIT, and had yet to hear the board's decision. Normally it only took hours, but 24 later, Peter was still awaiting their decision. Thinking that putting together his daughter's new swing set would take his mind off things, he'd soon discovered that a 190 IQ does not guarantee being able to read assembly instructions written in what must be hieroglyphics.

"What's that, kiddo?" he said to the unusually still and contemplative four-year-old seated in the grass nearby.

"There are three hundred and sixty five days in a year," she said matter-of-factly.

"There are, indeed," Peter agreed. As he had suspected – and secretly feared – Henrietta Bishop was bright beyond her years. Given a battery of tests at her kindergarten, it was discovered that Etta was reading at fifth grade level. The teachers suggested skipping the child to at least the second grade, but Peter flatly refused, as did her mother, after some convincing.

"I remember what that was like, Liv," he had explained. "Being the weird kid, the thing that wasn't like the others. And I was older than Etta when they skipped me."

"But Peter, she'll be so bored," Olivia countered. "We can't ignore the fact that Etta is more advanced than the other kids. She'll be frustrated, and more likely to act out if she has to sit through stuff she already knows." Olivia ran a hand through her hair, frustrated herself. Even after years of dealing with "her" two geniuses, she still couldn't grasp what it must be like to literally be the smartest person in the room.

"I'm not saying she shouldn't advance eventually, but God, Liv, she's four. She just wants to play. She needs to be a kid. She needs to be normal. That's a precious thing… it's such a precious thing."

Olivia buried a hand in the curling hair at the nape of Peter's neck. "Says the voice of experience," she said softly, kissing the top of his head. "Okay, we give it some time."

"Daddy, are you listening to me?" Etta demanded, snapping Peter from his reverie.

"Hanging on every word, your highness," he joked. "Um, what did you say?"

Etta rolled her eyes in a very Olivia-esque gesture. "I said, three hundred and sixty five days is equal to 52 weeks."

"Right again," he smiled.

"So, it's been three hundred and sixty-five days, or 52 weeks, or one year… since Grandpa went away."

Peter's smile faded immediately. He had tried desperately not to think about the unhappy anniversary when he woke up this morning; there was an air of sadness as he prepared breakfast for Etta and Olivia. No one had broached the subject, although Etta's request for whale-shaped pancakes did seem to address the elephant in the room quite nicely, in Peter's opinion.

Etta had seemed preoccupied with numbers this morning, asking Peter what his favorite one was. "Hm," he'd replied, "I'd never really thought about it, but I guess that lately, my favorite number is four."

"Why?" Etta countered.

Peter grinned, pointing his spatula at Etta first, then himself. "One, two… " He turned and pointed to Olivia, who had walked over to the stove to give her husband a kiss. "Three… and four!" he finished, punctuating the last word with a tiny tap to the nose of the baby Olivia held in her arms. "You, Mommy, Robbie and me."

Olivia sat down at the breakfast table. "Say good morning to your brother, baby," Olivia said, kissing Etta.

Wrinkling her nose, Etta said, "Is he still stinky? He was really stinky last night."

"Excuse me, miss, but you were pretty stinky in your day, too," Olivia chuckled.

"Was not," Etta pouted, her brow furrowing.

"More and more like your father," Olivia muttered in a stage whisper, achieving the desired, matching frown from Peter.

"My favorite number is five," Etta said.

"Really?" Olivia said, "And why's that?"

Etta shrugged. "It's one more than four," she had said cryptically.

Thinking back on the conversation, Peter realized what was going on. "Etta, when you said five was your favorite number, was that because the four of us, plus Grandpa, would equal five?"

Etta looked Peter in the eye. "Four of us, plus Grandpa, _does_ equal five." She folded her arms defiantly. "Is Grandpa dead?"

"What?" Peter spluttered, stunned. "N-no. No, honey, Grandpa's not dead. He just had to go far away."

"When Joey Kamala's grandma died, his mommy told him that she'd gone far away, too. But she was really dead. So?" she challenged him.

"Your grandfather is not dead, Henrietta," Olivia said from the doorway to the garden. "And I'll thank you to lose that tone with your father."

Lowering her head, Etta said, "Sorry, Daddy. I miss Grandpa."

Peter walked over to where Etta sat on the grass and plopped down next to her. "So do I." He patted the grass next to him. "Come on, Mommy, take a load off," he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Oh, sure, in my business suit. That'll happen." Olivia leaned against the picnic table Peter had built for the yard. "Still no word?"

"Nope."

"Good grief. Robbie okay today? He was out like a light when I checked on him just now."

"Yup, he's been very accommodating. How was work?"

"Same old, same old," she sighed. "Am I a terrible person to miss some of the weirdness?"

"As long as it's only _some_ of the weirdness, no, not at all," Peter said wryly.

"Mommy, why can't Grandpa come home? It's been three hundred and sixty five days!" Etta said, stubbornly refusing to let the issue die.

"Baby, he just can't. Remember, we told you he was doing something very, very important. Like, _superhero_ important," Olivia explained.

"But it's not fair," Etta whined, sounding just like a non-advanced four-year-old.

Sighing, Peter scooped Etta into his lap. "Okay, toots, here's the deal. You know how every year, after a really great summer playing in the grass and climbing trees, the leaves turn brown, and fall comes?"

"Autumnal equinox," Etta said, nodding.

"Exactly. And you know how Mary across the street had that big party for her high school graduation, and went away to college?"

Nodding again, Etta said, "She went to Wisconsin. Her mommy was sad."

"She sure was," Olivia said, "But it was time for Mary to do something new, and important, and she went away to do it. Etta, things change. The time comes sometimes when something really good has to end, and it makes us sad. But, then, something new might happen. Mary's starting a whole new life. And Mary's mom will always have the memories of all the fun stuff they did together, just like you remember all the silly things Grandpa did."

"Grandpa wasn't silly," Etta groused. At Peter's raised eyebrow, she added, "Well, not very."

Peter hugged Etta close to him. "To everything _there is a season_, and a time to every purpose under heaven."

"Ecclesiastes, Peter?" Olivia mused.

He shook his head. "The Byrds. Walter played that song constantly. Most often when… " He mouthed the words, "He was high," over Etta's head. Sadly, he added, "Maybe he knew what was to come even then."

"Maybe," Olivia agreed softly.

"Daddy, do you think Grandpa thinks about us?" Etta asked.

"I'll bet he does. You're pretty unforgettable," Peter answered.

"Maybe he could let us know he's okay," the girl continued. "You know, send us an email or a message or something!"

"Oh, honey…" Olivia sighed. "I don't think that's possible. But we want you to know that where Grandpa is, he's doing everything for you. And for Daddy, and Aunt Astrid… "

"And stinky Robbie?" Etta interjected.

Peter laughed, rocking Etta in his arms, "And stinky Robbie."

The laughter was interrupted by the appearance at the yard gate of a tall, slender man in jeans and a sport jacket. "Oh," Peter said, recognizing the man as one of the members of the MIT dissertation board. "Hi."

"I'm sorry to interrupt. I rang the doorbell, but when I heard you out here… I hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all. Ladies, this is Doctor Andrew Pratt of MIT. Doctor Pratt, my wife Olivia, and daughter Etta."

"How do you do?" Etta said politely, as Olivia nodded her greeting.

"I'm very well, thank you," Pratt said, smiling. "I wanted to come in person to apologize for keeping you waiting. Your presentation was… unorthodox, to say the least. There was a lot to go over." Peter's face began to fall. "I also wanted to come in person to say congratulations… _Doctor Bishop_."

"Yay, Daddy! You're a doctor just like Grandpa now!" Etta exclaimed, throwing her arms around Peter.

Olivia, throwing caution to the wind, knelt in the grass and enveloped Peter and Etta in a hug. "Just like Walter," she said, cupping Peter's cheek and kissing him softly.

"Mommy, maybe Grandpa helped. This is Grandpa's message! He made Daddy a doctor now, too!" Etta offered.

"He did have a hand in this in a way, sweetheart," Peter said, tears threatening in his eyes. "So, yeah, maybe it is."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_Somewhere, 2167…_

"Sir, is there anything else you need?" the lab assistant said.

Walter Bishop shook his head, his eyes never leaving the computer screen. "No, thank you, that will be all for today, thank you."

When he heard the soft sound of the lab doors sliding closed behind him, Walter allowed himself to reach out and touch the computer screen, which showed a calendar for 2016. "One year," he said wistfully. "Open calendar date May 10, 2016."

A screen appeared, with a list of events from that date. Again, Walter reached out and touched one entry tenderly. "Open file." The file opened, and a photo appeared of a young couple with a small girl and baby, the father dressed in the cap and gown of a Doctoral graduate. "Well done, Doctor Bishop," he said, a tear sliding down his cheek. "Well done."

-0-0-0-0-


End file.
